


What's Mine is Yours

by hanktalkin



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Crew as Family, Episode: Let's Play – GTA V – Yacht Party (Achievement Hunter), F/M, Fake AH Crew, Marriage Proposal, POV Second Person, Rags to Riches, Sharing, Technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 20:50:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13039152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanktalkin/pseuds/hanktalkin
Summary: It's hard to share when you've started with nothing, but that doesn't mean you can't. Wether it's people or things, you can learn to let go of the things you've earned, and give them to the people who deserve them.





	What's Mine is Yours

 

There are advantages to clawing your way up tooth and nail through Los Santos’s various gangs and crime hierarchies. After all the blood, sweat, and tears are shed, you can pick the smaller nuisances off your back and begin to actually reap the benefits of the past decade of your life, claiming the world as your own. And once you find yourself super fucking loaded, there’s only one thing you can really do with it.

Live in the lap of luxury.

“Holy fuck Geoff. This place has fucking _talking fridge._ ”

Unfortunately, it also means sharing your riches with your shithead friends who helped get you here.

“Hey, stop poking at it,” you tell Michael, swatting him away from your yet-untouched refrigerator. “I paid good money for this shit, I don’t need you breaking it on the first day.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be poked?” Michael asks, indicating the touchscreen imbedded in the glossy black surface. “It’s like, made for poking.”

“He has a point,” Jack chimes in. She’s standing at the far end of the kitchen/lounge combo, cheerfully fiddling with the automatic shades and occasionally plunging the room into darkness. “I mean, I don’t blame him. I kind of want to come over there and poke it myself. Tantalizing.”

You sigh in exasperation.

The penthouse—your penthouse—is brand new, not even lived in for a day before the rest of your crew invited themselves over. For all you know, Michael _is_ using the fridge right, but damn anyone if they think you’re going to admit that.

“Fine,” you grumble. “Knock yourself out.”

The truth is, you don’t really know how to be rich. Sure you’ve been dreaming of it ever since you realized how small and shitty the apartment you were born in was, even compared to other first graders, but that doesn’t mean you actually know what to _do_ with all this crap that came with your first big purchase. In fact, the only reason you’re not joining them in pushing all the fancy buttons is because you had a test drive last night.

“Geoffrey?” Gavin’s voice chimes in suddenly, voice mixing equal parts delight and alarm. “…Is my bum getting warm?”

You leave the kitchen, walking into the open plan living room so you can better see Gavin. He’s sprawling in a black leather chair, shoulders back so far they’re practically toughing his ears, and expression that of a mouse who knows the cheese is too good to be true.

“It’s a heated seat,” you explain, to Gavin’s ever growing amazement. “It turns on when you sit down.”

“Good lord,” Gavin says, melting further into the chair because apparently that’s possible.

“Here,” you say, leaning in to the left armrest. “Watch this.”

With a press, you activate the massagers in the back of the chair, and you get to see the exact instant Gavin’s soul leaves his body. The one time you’ve witnessed Gavin smoke weed has nothing on the total slack-jawed high that takes over him now.

“Geoff knows all the tricks in the house of magic,” Jack’s voice floats over, since she’s now standing in front of the sink and trying her hand at the touch-activated faucet.

“That’s because it’s _my_ house,” you remind her and the rest of these freeloaders. “So don’t forget that if I catch you trying to steal my roomba.”

“But we can come over whenever we want, right?” Michael asks, now examining your microwave which no doubt has a million and one secret features you haven’t discovered yet.

“Well…yeah…” you admit.

“And there’s a couple of spare bedrooms, isn’t there?” Jack adds blithely.

You can see where this is going. You sigh, but you have no intention of stopping it. You never could have achieved this without out the three of them, never have gotten your failing crew off the ground without these assholes. You owe them this and more.

“Yeah yeah,” you say, recognizing defeat.

“Oh cheer up Geoff,” Michael smirks. “I know you want us around. You’ll hardly even notice us, right Jack?”

“Speak for yourself,” she declares with a wink at you. “Personally, I’m going to be spending the rest of my life in that four-man bathtub.”

Groaning, you rub the bridge of your nose. You didn’t even see her sneak off to the bathroom, that slippery bitch, and yet she’s somehow accomplished full recognizance without your knowledge.

“Might as well leave some fucking toothbrushes while you’re at it,” you deadpan.

But the feeling in the room is light (and not just because Jack decided to leave the shades open.) This is a new beginning, for all of you, a launch pad for the next stage of the Fake AH Crew; them bumming here is a small price to pay for the added protection. And company.

Jack smiles. “Well, now that that’s settled, I’m going to go take a Jacuzzi.”

“Have fun,” Gavin calls faintly from the buzzing chair.

Jack leans against the entrance to the hallway, one hand resting on her hip and eyebrow raised expectantly. “Maybe some people didn’t hear me. I said I’m _going_ to go take a _Jacuzzi_.”

You watch as Gavin’s eyes shoot open, and as he nearly trips himself getting out of the chair. “Right! Jacuzzi. I’m going to go with. Just in case she…falls in.” He eagerly sprints off after Jack, who’s already making her way down the hall.

Michael snickers, and you roll your eyes and think about how you’re basically stuck with these morons for the rest of your life. You wonder how you got so lucky.

* * *

You’re too old for Snapchat. You are. It’s a fact of life and everyday you fool yourself into thinking _hey. I totally have this thing you down._

(Spoilers Geoff: you don’t.)

That doesn’t stop you from waking up one morning—crust in your eyes and hangover heavy in the front of your skull—from picking up your phone and swiping through. You’ve been out for a long time, a whole day actually, and you feel a brief throng of guilt at that until you remember _hey, I don’t give a shit._ It’s through the mental fog and too-millennial-for-you-app that you learn what your crew’s been up to in your absence.

They stole your yacht.

Not in the _Geoff’s a fucker, let’s show him who’s really in charge of Los Santos_ kind of stealing, but more _we’re the boss’s favorites and we could get away with fucking murder if we wanted_ kind of stealing. It’s a balls-to-the wall open proclamation of _we have Geoff Ramsey wrapped around our collective fingers and we don’t give a fuck who knows it._

It’s mildly annoying, but ultimately you’re not mad because you know they’re right. A penthouse, a Lamborghini, a half-dozen fighter jets later and a lost yacht doesn’t seem all that big a deal anymore. The FAHC has grown substantially over the years—people gained, people lost, banks robbed—and you’ve always taken the largest cut without anyone’s objection. The converse is this: whatever’s yours, isn’t really yours. Michael spends nights on your couch, using your Xbox until three in the goddamned morning. Jeremy shmoozes your mechanic for custom paint jobs until everything he owns is orange and purple, absolving all financial responsibility by saying _just put it on Geoff’s tab_. And Gavin…well Gavin just goddamned lives here, no way around it.

It takes the morning to flip through your phone, catching up on everything you missed. You watch Jeremy take a dive off the top of the yacht, narrowly avoiding grenades as Michal throws them into the sea. Ryan takes a selfie of himself, a fact that would be weird even without his “casual” face paint, but it’s all explained when you realize behind him is the cockpit of a helicopter Ryan’s about to crash into the yacht. It’s all fine in the next snap, which reveals Ryan—and the yacht—mostly unharmed.

(The caption reads, “I lived, bitch.”)

Your favorites are the hot tub ones. There they are, all five of them, obviously at ease while the sun sets behind them. There’s an odd feeling in your chest as you look at them, as though you miss them even though you know they’re just a phone call away.

There’s one glorious video of Gavin and Jack reenacting Titanic while the black ocean spans out around them. (Jack is Elizabeth and Gavin is Jack, but you’re okay with them taking some creative liberties.) The feeling in your chest grows wider when Michael zooms in, and you can see Gavin gently resting his chin on Jack’s shoulder.

You might literally be at risk of diabetes right there, but thankfully your boys pull through when Ryan shoots a flare and lights Jack’s shirt on fire. Gavin’s distant squawking and Michael’s much closer shrieks of laughter are infections, and you don’t even have to feel bad about laughing yourself to tears since Jack dives into the water a moment later.

There’s one more story left—Gavin’s—and then you really do need to get your ass out of bed to recover from your eighteen-hour nap. Gavin has only one picture, so you think, _eh what the heck,_ and take a couple extra seconds to check it.

It’s a good thing too. Otherwise you might have missed the lone selfie where Gavin drew dicks on your sleeping face.

* * *

The penthouse is quiet. No yelling, no ragequits…the damn night owl has finally gone to sleep.

Passing his sleeping form on the way to your own room, you consider something. Yeah, sure so the penthouse isn’t that cold, and you’re not Michael’s damn mother, but you slip a blanket over his shoulders anyway, because why the fuck not?

Jack meets you in the kitchen, in a bathrobe and filling up a glass of water.

“Hey,” you say, because it’s late and you’re not good at small talk at the best of times.

“Hey yourself,” she says and drinks. But she’s smiling softly because she saw what you did. “Always looking out, huh?”

“Like you’re one to talk,” you manage to grin. The boys don’t call her Team Mom for nothing.

Jack smiles and shrugs, and hey, you’re not above a little stand-around-past-midnight-drinking silence. So you get yourself a glass of water and stand there too, leaning against the island enjoying her company while Michael snores in the other room. You two don’t get moments of silence like this anymore; she’s been your oldest friend, one of the founders of FAHC, and over the years you’ve learned what each of her breath and quirk of her lips mean. It’s good to hear them again.

She breaks it, eventually.

“Geoff.” She holds an empty glass. “Can I ask you for something?”

Rolling your shoulders, you look over at her. You don’t bother making a joke: anything she asks of you, you’re willing to give. There’s no object you hold sacred, no favor you wouldn’t do for your people.

“Shoot.”

Jack looks you right in the eye. “I’m going to ask Gavin if he wants to get married. I’d like your blessing.”

You snort water out your nose because even after port-a-potty heights and Santa chimney shenanigans, that was the last fucking thing you expected to hear.

(But it honestly shouldn’t’ve been. Because seriously Geoff? Are you blind?)

The coughing when the water goes down the wrong pipe doesn’t last for long, and you stop to look at Jack. She’s calm, not worried in the least, and you realize this has been coming for a long time.

“Okay,” you say, wiping your face with your sleeve, “two things.” You stop. “Okay, way more than two things, but two things that are relevant to the goddamn conversation right now.”

Jack waits expectantly.

“One, I’m not Gavin’s dad.”

She raises an eyebrow at you. “Come on Geoff. Work with me here.”

Sighing, you curse her and also yourself (and Gavin for good measure.) The little twit has lived with you ever since he came to America, lounging in your Austin apartment and following you all the way to Los Santos. Gavin doesn’t talk about his family much, but you know how he sees you.

“Okay, fine. I’m his dad. His American dad.”

“You know what I’m still stuck on? Season three of American Dad.”

“Jack please,” you beg. “I’m busy having a crisis here.”

“Oh I’m sorry, go on.”

Looking at her, you feel like you’re seeing back in time, to when you first saw Jack on the other side of the territory line and wondered what it’d be like to have her on your side. Before Michael, before Gavin, before you were anything more than just _Geoff_ …she was the start. The reason you’re _Ramsey_. And your arguments all fall out of you when you realize you can’t imagine anything better than your two oldest friends making something to last.

“Was there a thing number two?” Jack asks at your impending silence.

You were going to say something about marriage being too strong, too lasting. That when they live lives like these, they should aim to plan as short-sighted as possible. But all that’s wiped away now, because you’re just too goddamned happy.

“…Actually, nope. Never mind.” You set your glass down on the island with a clink. “Come here.”

She lets you pull her into a hug. It’s a good feeling, nostalgic almost, and you’re just so damn proud of her. Of them both.

“You can have my goddamned blessing,” you mutter into her hair.

“Thanks Geoff,” and you can here the smile in her voice. “I knew you’d be cool.”

“Setting internal temperature to ‘cool’,” the fridge says next to you. “Please say ‘yes’ or ‘cancel’ to proceed.”

You give it a hard kick.


End file.
